


Warm Wind Blowing

by PlaneJane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin first catches sight of the boy in the trees he can’t believe his eyes.  Could it be him after all these years?  Could it be Arthur—the boy that broke Merlin’s heart, the boy he’d tried so hard to forget?  It seems Merlin’s past has come back to haunt him and try as he might there’s no escaping it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Wind Blowing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to my beta (you know who you are!) and to my prompter for a splendid prompt.  
> The high school characters in this story are aged 16 — the age of consent in the UK.  
> The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.

Gwaine gave up the oars and let Merlin take over rowing the boat from the middle of the lake to the shore. It was a leisurely five minutes skimming the still water; Merlin must have done it a hundred times before—and Gwaine too. Freya clambered past Merlin from her perch on the bow end to the stern, settling her back against Gwaine’s chest and dangling one leg over the side. Her bare foot dipped the surface. Merlin watched the water slide over her dainty toes. She was wearing bright blue, sparkly nail polish, and had painted the same colour on Gwaine’s toenails. Merlin wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t seeing it for himself. But then Gwaine was in love and that, apparently, explained anything and everything. 

They pulled the boat up the bank and set a blanket on the grass. Gwaine had brought the picnic today, which meant a bottle of cider, three bags of crisps and cheese and pickle sandwiches. Plus there was a big daisy he’d pinched from Merlin’s mum’s garden which he put in Freya’s hair once they were settled on their backs, looking up at the half-clouded sky. 

The summer holidays were coming to a close and this was probably the last time they’d be out here before school started again. Once Merlin and his friends were all sixth formers, he wasn’t sure how much things would change, how they would change. Maybe they wouldn’t want to do this anymore. 

Merlin stretched his arms up over his head and pulled at a plump blade of grass. He closed his eyes and listened—to the sounds of the birds singing and Freya humming a tune quietly beside him. He soaked up the sun’s intermittent rays and shifted into the embrace of the warm breeze. If this was to be the last time, Merlin planned to commit it to memory, every last sensation.

“Don’t look now, but we’re being watched,” Freya said just above a whisper. 

Merlin opened his eyes, slowly turning his head towards Freya, who was lying between him and Gwaine, still staring up into the sky. Gwaine rolled onto his side, lifted his head and started glancing around. 

Freya did that sometimes—got a _feeling_ —knew something about someone that she couldn’t explain. If she said there was someone watching them, there was. That Merlin had such confidence in her powers of perception might have seemed weird. Except that he had magical powers of his own. It was a huge secret amongst his closest friends: Freya, Gwaine, Will and Elena. None of them would have believed it possible had they not seen for themselves, Merlin moving things with his mind (albeit _small_ and _proximate_ things, like shoes and books across his bedroom). But it hadn’t taken Gwaine to point out that if the government found out Merlin could do ‘real magic’ they’d probably come and take him away and do horrible scientific experiments on him for Merlin to know this was not something other people could know about. 

“Behind us, in the trees, babe,” Freya said to Gwaine, discreetly pointing her finger in the direction of the woods behind them.

Gwaine replied loudly, “I can’t see anything.”

Merlin couldn’t either, though he wasn’t being quite as obvious about it.

“I expect that’s because he doesn’t want to be seen.” 

At that, Gwaine leapt up onto his feet, undid his shorts and shoved them down, along with his pants, over his backside. Wiggling his naked arse in the direction of the trees, he shouted, “Oi! Peeping Tom! Have an eyeful of this.”

No, Merlin was definitely not as obvious as Gwaine.

Freya shrieked with laughter and tried to pull Gwaine back down onto the grass. Merlin let them wrestle it out, more curious about the mystery spy. He shivered. The breeze was picking up over the lake. But it was balmy, not cool. Merlin’s disquiet was nothing to do with the air. He stood up, casually turning on his feet to look into the trees where Freya had been pointing. 

At first, Merlin couldn’t see anyone. He took a step closer and as he did so a voice called out prissily, “You’re trespassing on private property.”

Merlin’s hackles rose. Whoever it was in the bushes was young, like them. And he was a coward, skulking out of sight. “Actually,” Merlin shouted back, “this is common land, right up to where the woods start. So what are you going to do now?”

There was movement in the scrub, and Merlin watched as a boy, about his age, emerged from the between the low, slanted branches of one of the trees. He was cast in shadow, his face partly obscured by leaves, but Merlin could see he was athletic and tanned. Merlin waited for his response, but the boy said nothing—just stood there staring. Merlin did exactly the same for a few lingering seconds, maybe less; it wasn’t usual for him to be lost for words.

Trying to get a better look, Merlin ventured another step towards the trees. Only the boy turned and fled—his departure nothing more than a rustle of the undergrowth, the snap of a few twigs and the flash of a white t-shirt disappearing through the gaps in the trees.

“Did you see him?” Gwaine called up from the ground.

“No, not really. Only a glimpse.” 

It was a good glimpse. The mystery boy was about Gwaine’s height, but his hair was fine and honey-blond where Gwaine’s was thick and dark. He had blue eyes—serious, sorrowful, deep blue eyes—and he reminded Merlin of someone—

“Merlin, what’s wrong?” Freya reached up and tugged on the leg of his shorts. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I feel like I did.” Merlin hugged his shoulders and shuddered.

Gwaine sat up and waggled his outstretched fingers, opening his eyes wide. “Ooh, spooky. Maybe the Big House is haunted. That’s why no one lives there anymore.”

Shaking his head, Merlin looked down at the bottle of cider on the picnic blanket, whispered and _thought_ , “Come”. The bottle flew upwards, slapping into his outstretched palm. He drained the remainder, forcing down his discomfort. There was no such thing as ghosts. Only tricks of the mind—and blasts from the past.

Freya stood up and took another long look at the sky. She had to push her hair back and hold it behind her head, as a gust of warm air whipped it in raven ribbons across her face. “We should get going. It looks like a storm’s on its way.”

The gaps of afternoon blue overhead had been filled with bulging, grey cloud. A corner of the picnic blanket was picking up and flapping over Gwaine’s outstretched legs. Merlin was glad to leave. He bent over to start packing away the few things left on the blanket when a rush of nausea surged through him. Merlin dropped to his knees to avoid swaying over; falling flat on his face. 

The cider must have gone to his head. It had to be that. It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with feeling like his heart was being wrung out, just by looking at a boy in the trees.

*

Gwaine’s parents owned The Kilgharrah Arms. Sunday lunchtimes were always busy, particularly when the weather was nice enough to sit outside. That meant today Gwaine had to help, mainly in the kitchen—which also meant free drinks and crisps in the beer garden for him and his mates, which he hastily delivered between bringing out crates of empties for the recycling.

Merlin cycled around the back and parked his bike between the wheelie bins. Will, Freya and Elena were already there, sitting at one of the nearer picnic tables picking at a basket of chips and drinking shandies. Elena made room for Merlin next to her. She pushed a chip slathered in ketchup into his mouth before his bum had hit the seat. 

“Got to feed you up a bit, duck,” she said cheerily. “Mum said there’s going to be a new kid, a boy, in the sixth form. You never know, he might be gay.”

A new boy. 

Merlin swallowed his chip before he said, “He might be straight. He might fancy you, think you’re some gorgeous blonde siren, until he gets to know you and finds out you’re a complete slob.” 

Elena screwed up her nose and stuck out her tongue, then dived back into the chips. She had a blob of ketchup in a strand of her hair. Merlin took the elastic off her wrist and motioned her to swivel round a bit, so he could work a plait down the back of her head and deliberately not look any of them in the eye.

“What else did she tell you?” Merlin asked in a measured tone, as though he didn’t care about the answer; hoping for a name that wouldn’t be, couldn’t be—

“Nothing.” 

Merlin didn’t really expect Elena to know more. Her mum worked in the school office, and probably saw the new boy’s admission forms. Ealdor High was small as secondary schools went; it was rare for kids to come and go. It would have caught her attention—new kids were always a novelty—but she could hardly go blabbing his private details to the whole village.

Freya pushed her shandy over to Merlin. She never drank more than half a glass, but then she was half the size of the rest of them. She said, “Do you think it’s going to be that boy we saw over at the lake?” 

“What boy?” Will asked, looking up from his phone. 

Freya answered. “I think someone’s moved into the Big House. There’s a boy, about our age. He was watching us from the woods when we were out there a few days ago.”

Will said with some scorn, “He was spying on you? He didn’t come out and talk to you?”

“I think Gwaine scared him off when he mooned him.” Merlin heard the laugh in Freya’s voice. Then they all laughed. 

“I doubt it’ll be him,” Elena said. “If he lives at the Big House I expect he’ll go to a private school.”

There was a noncommittal noise of agreement from around the table. After that, the conversation didn’t go back to the mystery boy. Gwaine came out and joined them for half an hour. Mostly they talked about what they’d been watching on television, the latest Scarlet Knights album and what they planned to wear the first day back at school now they didn’t have to wear a uniform.

All the while, Merlin’s thoughts drifted back to the blond-haired boy that reminded him uncannily of someone he’d known what seemed like a lifetime and a day ago—someone he wished he’d been able to forget.

*

The first day of term, Merlin was late for school—really late. It wasn’t his fault. His mum was going to drive him, since she had a shift at the hospital that morning and it was on her way. It was only a mile and Merlin usually walked but he suspected she wanted to get a glimpse of him and his friends in their own togs, looking all grown-up and like they owned the place. They were her words, not his, and she said them with such excitement he couldn’t refuse her.

“It’s hard to know where the last four years have gone,” she said as they got in the car. “It only seems like yesterday we moved here from the city. Do you remember me driving you to school for your first day of Year 8?”

“Yeah.” Merlin did. He remembered it with cringe-inducing clarity—from his too-short haircut that his mum had given him the day before, to his school satchel with the brown leather straps and brass buckles. He’d hated that bag and wished they’d been able to afford something new, something like all the other kids had. 

Hunith went on, “You had some funny ideas back then. For some reason, you’d got it into your head no one would like you. You kept saying, ‘I’m small and skinny and weird and my ears stick out’. Something like that.” She laughed fondly. “You walked home with Will that same day and the pair of you have been friends ever since.”

Hunith was in the middle of recounting how she’d worried about Merlin all that day, while they were pulling around the bend out of their cul-de-sac, when out of the blue someone in a white Volvo backed out of their drive—and hit their car side-on. The sudden, deafening noise of the impact was more startling than the force of it. The car engine stalled. But the radio kept on playing, and for a split second it was like it hadn’t really happened—until the driver of the Volvo was frantically knocking on Hunith’s window in a panic and asking them if they were all right.

No one was hurt, though the car was in bad shape. Hunith was shaken and tearful, but insistent Merlin carry on to school on foot. Of course, he wasn’t going to leave her; so they sat together, perched on someone’s garden wall, waiting for the tow truck to come and take their crumpled car to the garage. 

During the wait, Merlin let his friends know he was delayed. In reply, he received two texts from Elena, one from Will and one from Freya. As well as voicing their concern and well wishes, they all mentioned the new boy. They all said the same thing. 

_He’s handsome, he’s really nice, it was him at the lake, he lives at the Big House. His name is Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. He knows you from the city!_

Merlin dragged his feet to school. It was all he could do not to turn around and go home, hide his head under his pillow and stay there for the rest of his life. Because there was no way he could face seeing Arthur again. The memories still haunted him, his stomach still twisted from the pain and humiliation of four years ago. 

Over the past year, Merlin’s friends had tried to fix him up a few times with this boy and that. He’d never pursued any of them. His friends seemed to think that somehow taking that initial, tentative step towards finding his first love (or grope or shag) was all the more difficult for Merlin because he was gay. He didn’t tell them that they had it all wrong. They didn’t know that Merlin had already stepped right over the edge, a long time ago, and having hit the ground hard he’d never managed to get back up. 

Arthur had seen to that, the day he broke Merlin’s heart.

And so it was, Merlin found himself stood outside the sixth form common room, unable to step over the threshold for fear he would come face-to-face with Arthur. He folded his timetable and slid it into his back pocket, he fiddled with his phone only to find there were no more new messages, he worried his bottom lip and he watched the bright orange door. Eventually, someone would come out, someone would go in. Merlin couldn’t stand out here indefinitely. He looked at his watch—another hour before his first physics class. His stomach rumbled. But he couldn’t go and eat his packed lunch in the canteen, not now he was in the sixth form. It wasn’t the done thing. 

“Hey, Merlin!” 

Merlin spun around in time to see a billow of long, blonde hair, before he was bulldozed into a crushing hug by Elena. 

Merlin managed to puff out, “I’m fine. I said I was. It was just a bump,” while prising off her arms. 

“Well, come on in then. I’ll make you some tea.” Elena grabbed Merlin by the hand and pulled him into the common room. 

It was more or less empty. Merlin slumped onto a comfy chair and allowed himself a few deep, steadying breaths before he asked, “Where is everyone?”

“Um, not sure. In lessons I suppose, or signing up for clubs or something. We’re going to meet up after school, over at Gwaine’s. Are you coming?”

“I’d best go home. Mum was really shaken up.”

Merlin wanted to join them. His mum wouldn’t have begrudged him spending time with his friends. But if there was the remotest chance one of them had asked the new boy, had asked Arthur to go too—

“Isn’t it funny, about Arthur?” Elena said as she squeezed out the tea bag with her fingers. “Do you remember him?”

“Yes.” Merlin’s stomach did that all-too-familiar clench and twist. “We knew each other. We were sort of friends actually.”

“Sort of?”

“My mum, before she got her nursing qualifications, used to be his dad’s housekeeper. Arthur and I used to see each other after school, and sometimes in the holidays.”

Elena nodded, returned to the counter and started to make herself a hot chocolate. Merlin held his mug to his chest and bit the inside of his cheek. Elena was a good friend. He could tell her the truth, he could tell her what Arthur had meant to him. He could, if it didn’t feel like the words would incinerate his tongue.

Before she moved with Merlin to Ealdor, Hunith had worked for Uther Pendragon, Arthur’s father. Back then, Merlin went to the local junior school and Arthur went to a day prep school. After school, Hunith picked up Merlin, then Arthur, and brought them back to the Pendragon’s where she stayed until Uther arrived home from work. Spending as much time together as siblings, the two boys quickly became inseparable. 

They were opposites in just about every way possible. Merlin was bony where Arthur was muscular, dark-haired where he was blond, uncoordinated and bookish where Arthur was athletic and physical. Yet somehow they found a common ground conjuring a kingdom filled with swords, castles and dragons, from their boundless childish imagination. Whether it was borne from their shared world of fantasy, or purely from his own heart, Merlin didn’t know. But he’d honestly believed it was more than circumstance that drew them together. More importantly than that, he’d been positive that as he loved Arthur, Arthur loved him in return.

It was on this one monumental thing, he’d been sorely mistaken. 

Elena interrupted Merlin’s thoughts. “Your mum was his housekeeper?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“That might explain it then.”

“Explain what?”

“Well, he didn’t seem very keen to talk about how you knew each other. He was evasive.” She paused. Then, as if she’d had a sudden revelation, exclaimed, “Isn’t that sweet? He was probably embarrassed. You know, he didn’t want to rub it in, that he’s rich, or sound like he was a snob.”

“Arthur’s the biggest snob I ever met.”

Elena scrunched up her face as she looked at Merlin quizzically. “He didn’t seem like he is.” 

“Well he _is._ ”

“Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not usually this snippy.”

Merlin hadn’t meant to snap at her but he found himself doing it again when he replied, “I’m fine.”

She continued, unfazed. “Good. Anyway, you’ll see him this afternoon in physics. You are doing physics, aren’t you?”

The blood rushed past Merlin’s ears and pounded like a jackhammer in his head. The room began spinning. He blinked and tried to focus on his mug as a rolling wave of nausea rose up from the pit of his stomach, lurching and belching its way up to his throat. Merlin leant forward, but was unable to stop himself falling all the way down, down, down to the floor.

*

Merlin stayed in bed for two days, contemplating his options.

There was no question; he had to go back to school. After their car accident, his mum had put his fainting episode down to mild shock and an empty stomach. But it was cruel to let her keep thinking he was in any way traumatised by a minor prang, when the real reason for his malady was nothing to do with it. He just needed time to think.

Merlin tried to convince himself he had nothing to be embarrassed about. He was a boy of twelve when he last saw Arthur. There was no doubt he’d changed a lot since then, and the odds were that Arthur had too. Perhaps, if he went back to school and acted like nothing weird had happened between them, Arthur would do the same and things would carry on as normal. 

There again, perhaps Arthur would bring it up in front of everyone. 

Merlin twisted his aching body more tightly into the duvet, while his worries entwined around one another and worked themselves into big, ugly knots. Unable to fight off a thumping headache, Merlin hardly slept a wink, for all the hours he spent in his bed. 

When Thursday came, Merlin got up at six, an hour earlier than he usually did. He showered, put on aftershave and tousled his hair with styling wax. He tried on four different tops, before settling on the grey-blue one he’d picked out first. He stood in front of the mirror, and stood, and tried to see himself for the first time, to imagine how he would appear to Arthur after all these years. 

Merlin arrived at school so early he was the first one in the common room. He took the chance to try out a few of the seats, to position himself where anyone entering the room would see him looking casually through the _Heat_ magazine that had been left on one of the tables. Then he thought it might look better if he was reading the _Guardian_ that had also been left behind. Undecided, he discarded the reading material, and sat back down empty-handed on a threadbare armchair, with his legs apart. Then he crossed them. Then he wondered if that looked too gay (the irony wasn’t lost), and uncrossed them. _Then_ he decided he would stand up and take a look at the notice board, which was the precise moment the door to the common room opened—and in walked Arthur.

Merlin’s heart almost thudded out of his chest, because it was absolutely, clearly and definitely Arthur, but his round, soft cheeks were gone and in their place were _cheekbones_ and a strong, straight jaw. His mouth was the same stern set, his lips parted and his eyes, those piercing blue eyes stared, just stared and stared and nothing came out of his mouth except a small startled sound which Merlin should have found funny, but made his throat go tight.

Arthur’s bag slid off his shoulder. He caught the handle in his fingers and said in a rough squeak, “Hello, Merlin.”

Merlin watched as Arthur’s fist closed around the handle on his bag, his knuckles gone white. His Adam’s apple protruded from the front of his neck. Merlin could see it move as he swallowed. Bloody hell, but his neck was thick. Merlin couldn’t get over how much like a man Arthur looked—a striking, handsome man.

Merlin considered his own slight build. Over the summer holidays he’d been asked for ID to get into a 15 film. Merlin might have got tall, he might be fully developed in all the ways he was supposed to be for someone his age, but in his face and frame he still looked like a boy and he’d never felt it more painfully than he did at that moment.

Too much time elapsed before Merlin said, “Hi.” The door to the common room was opening and a group of girls from the upper sixth were on their way in at the same time as Arthur was turning around and leaving, taking with him any hope that things between them weren’t going to be awkward.

*

It became apparent very quickly that Merlin’s friends loved Arthur. They told Merlin as much from the first day of term. Why wouldn’t they? After all, Merlin loved Arthur—just as he had when he was twelve, when he’d whispered those fateful three words in Arthur’s ear. But Arthur didn’t love Merlin back. His silence, the way he’d shut Merlin out after his confession, was the proof and the verdict.

Being around Arthur again, Merlin was confronted daily with the brutal knowledge that the passage of time had eased nothing. He was still in love. However, rather than ignoring Merlin as he had when they were children, Arthur was civil, personable and almost kind. It was hard to know which was worse: the sharp, bleeding stab of being ignored, rejected, or the slow, strangling ache of feigned smiles and unwanted pity. 

At least they didn’t talk about the past. They didn’t share fond reminiscences. Merlin deflected and fielded questions from Will, Elena, Freya and Gwaine about his prior friendship with Arthur with deftness. He surprised himself at how good he was at lying. He could only assume Arthur was doing the same, because four full weeks passed by and as far as he was aware, no one was any the wiser. 

The weather into the beginning of October was mild. For her upcoming birthday, Freya suggested they spend a day out at the lake. It was impossible for Merlin to refuse, despite knowing that would mean hours and hours of proximity to Arthur. 

Merlin hoped and prayed for rain. 

Arthur announced that if it should rain, they could have the party at his house. The weather stayed sunny. 

The day before the party, Merlin tried deliberately falling off his bike. He buckled his front wheel and walked away without a scratch.

As a last and final resort, Merlin went to bed with his window wide open and his covers kicked onto the floor. It was a long shot, angling for a cold at this late stage. But he was all out of options that didn’t result in his permanent demise.

As chance would have it, Merlin slept like a log, and woke up at nine on Saturday morning with his duvet inexplicably pulled up to his chin, feeling uncannily refreshed. 

Hunith was in the kitchen, filling up the sink with soapy water. “Do you want to lick the bowl?” she asked, eyeing the counter. Clinging to the inside of the large, glass mixing bowl there were a few thick streaks of chocolate buttercream, and propped across the top a loaded spatula. 

“Icing? At this time of the morning?” Merlin scrunched up his face.

“There was a time you’d have eaten it for breakfast, lunch and dinner any day of the week. Too grown up now, I suppose?”

Merlin shrugged and leaned around his mum at the sink to fill the kettle. She was at least five inches shorter than him now. It didn’t mean he’d stopped needing a hug, wanting the comforting warmth of her to shore him up every so often: when he felt small or nervous or unprepared for the day ahead. He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. Pressed next to her, Merlin felt her huff out a laugh. 

She said, “Not too old to give your old mum a cuddle though?”

“Never too old for that.” 

Merlin changed his mind about the icing and ran his finger over the edge of the mixing bowl. 

Freya’s cake was marble, covered with chocolate and fondant daisies. Hunith often said, always with affection and not the slightest hint of disappointment, that Freya was the closest to a daughter she was ever going to have. To that end, she liked to buy her things, girly knick-knacks, and make a cake for her seventeenth birthday. 

“I’ll give you a lift over to Arthur’s,” she said, not taking her eyes from the sink. “You can’t walk all that way with the cake.”

Merlin balked before replying, “Okay, thanks.”

He got the feeling Hunith was doing that mum thing—looking at him with the eyes in the back of her head. When he was very small he used to lift up her hair to look for them. It was hard to convince a child who knew magic was a real thing, not something only in stories, that it was a figure of speech; that the eyes in the back of her head weren’t real. He used to think if he snuck up on her, perhaps while she was asleep or engrossed in a book, he’d be able to catch them blinking at him through her dark brown hair. 

As often as he tried, Merlin never did find them. But he knew they were there all the same, boring into him, not just watching what he was up to, but seeing directly into his head and reading his thoughts. 

Having decided to go back to bed for an hour, Merlin took his tea up to his bedroom. He snuck deep under the covers, on the off-chance his mum was able to see him moping—through floors and walls as well.

*

The Big House was the name that everyone used for what was formally called Agravaine Manor. It was a dull-grey stone mansion house, set in a few of acres of private gardens. When Hunith pulled up to the tall, electric gate at the entrance, it was already open.

She’d only just come to a halt when Merlin was opening the door and saying, “I’ll get out here.”

They’d hardly said a word on the drive over. Well, Merlin had hardly said a word. Hunith had asked him about each of his friends in turn, inserting Arthur somewhere in the middle of the list, like he wouldn’t know she was fishing. 

Merlin was holding a Quality Street tin in one hand, with the cake inside it, and about to close the car door with the other when Hunith leaned across and said, “Say hello to Arthur for me. Tell him he’s welcome to come over any time he likes.”

Her eyes were wide and hopeful and Merlin felt like a complete shit for brushing her off. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Have a nice time. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll get a lift back with one of the others.”

Merlin tried closing the door, but Hunith kept speaking. “Don’t drink too much.”

“I won’t.”

“And, um, wish Freya a happy birthday. I hope she likes the cake.”

“She’ll love the cake.”

She sighed as she sat up and put the car into gear. “Have a nice time then.”

Merlin purposefully slammed the passenger door. She smiled sadly at him through the windscreen and drove off—leaving Merlin to walk up the long gravel drive, head hanging, feeling like he’d slammed the door deliberately on her fingers. 

As Merlin reached the front steps, he looked up to see Arthur standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the frame. He was wearing frayed, pale blue jeans and a tatty sweatshirt. He had bare feet. Perfect. To add to Merlin’s agony, he was overdressed. 

Arthur said, “I just got a call from Freya. She said she and Gwaine are going to be an hour late.” He smiled and flicked up his eyebrows. “She said Gwaine had a special birthday surprise for her.”

Merlin stood on the top step, holding the cake tin in front of his chest with both hands. “Are Elena and Will here yet?”

“No. Elena sent me a text about half an hour ago to say she was working an extra couple of hours at the stables, and Will texted just after that to say he’d only just woken up and wouldn’t be here until three.”

“It’s just you and me then?”

“Looks like it, for the next hour or so.”

“Do you want me to come back later?” 

Arthur shook his head and said in disbelief, _“No.”_

Merlin would have hung about in the lane, or gone and sat in the bus shelter and pretended he was waiting for the bus. His palms were sweating. His armpits were prickling. He wished he hadn’t worn a jumper over his shirt—and a jacket over that.

Arthur turned and went inside. Merlin crossed the threshold, wiped his feet and with a whisper closed the door behind him without ungluing his hands from the cake tin. He traipsed after Arthur (in a way which was strangely reminiscent to a time passed) and out onto a wide, low-walled patio at the rear of the house. There were four wrought iron chairs set around a small table, and a row of sun loungers lined up looking out over the lawn. 

“Do you want a beer?” Arthur reached into a giant red cool box and pulled out a bottle.

“Coke, if you’ve got one.”

Arthur kept the beer for himself, handed Merlin his coke and stretched out on one of the loungers. He looked like he was posing for a magazine shoot, with one arm tucked behind his head, the breeze lifting up golden strands of his hair, while he stared out into the distance swigging his beer. It wasn’t fair he’d got that good-looking. It wasn’t fair he could look that indifferent while Merlin was crumbling to pieces beside him.

Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur’s father was home. There was no sign of him. Though in a house this size it was entirely possible he was around somewhere, about to stride out and frighten the wits out of Merlin so that he’d blurt out something wholly inappropriate. It used to make Arthur laugh. Merlin doubted very much it would now.

Perching on the edge of the next sun lounger, Merlin made a paltry attempt to sip his coke with a fraction of Arthur’s unaffected grace. The bubbles kicked up and tickled the end of his nostrils. He sniffed hard and pinched away a sneeze. Knowing his luck, he’d come down with a cold after the party, just in time for their half-term exams.

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks; Arthur looking resolutely across the lawn like it held some mystical allure. Merlin followed his gaze towards the copse that stood between the gardens and the lake. He hadn’t seen it from this side before. He hadn’t realised it was almost impossible to see the water from where they were sitting, close to the ground, with all those trees and shrubs blocking the view. He wondered how many times Arthur had picked his way through the undergrowth before stumbling across him and Freya and Gwaine that fateful day in August. He wondered how well the sound carried and if maybe Arthur had heard them laughing and talking. 

There was no sound at the moment, except birdsong and the relentless pounding of Merlin’s heart. 

Out of the blue, without turning his head, Arthur asked, “Can you still do that thing with paperclips?” 

_“Yes,”_ Merlin said pointedly. He didn’t bother to demonstrate, though he could have ripped the beer from Arthur’s fingers and tipped it all over his head without a moment’s hesitation.

Arthur set his bottle down, drew his knees to his chest as he sat up, and turned to face Merlin. His toes curled into the cushion and he closed his eyes for a brief moment before he said, “I suppose it’s only fair that I be the one to bring it up first.”

“Bring what up?” Merlin scowled. As if he didn’t know exactly what Arthur was talking about. 

“I’m sorry. I know I hurt you with the way I behaved before you left.”

That was the understatement of the year. The anxiety and pain and anger that had been bubbling inside Merlin forced its way up his throat. He was going to burst if he didn’t let it out. He was going to explode all over Arthur’s fancy-arsed patio and splatter onto the furniture and shower Arthur with bits of his annihilated heart. Merlin was shaking, from his feet to his fists. He put down his coke very carefully. He stood up and resolutely did not throw his arms wide and scream and lash out and pummel Arthur’s chest. 

Merlin didn’t trust his voice not to crack. The things he wanted to say were backed up in his head, like cars stuck behind a three-lane crash. He blew out a breath, inhaled deeply and blew out again. Then he said, “Why did you have to be so cruel? Do you have any idea what it was like that last month, coming over and being ignored the whole time?”

Arthur frowned deeply and stared at his knees. It looked like he might have shaken his head.

Getting the first words out were the hardest. It wasn’t nearly as hard for Merlin to press on. “I know we were only twelve. But you were everything to me. And losing you was the worst thing that ever happened ... You broke my heart.”

Merlin slumped back down onto the lounger, wondering if Arthur had an answer to that, wondering if Arthur had known what he’d done. 

At least Arthur had the decency to look contrite, for an instant, until his face grew dark and angry. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. But don’t talk to me about loss because you have no idea. And it was you who left me, by the way.”

“It’s not like I had a choice! We were twelve, remember?”

“Yes, we were only twelve, and knowing you loved me—it frightened the hell out of me, Merlin. You were always so sure of yourself. You knew exactly who you were, _what_ you were, and what you wanted and you never worried about what anyone else thought of you.”

Arthur paused for a breath but it was obvious he was only getting started. He went on, his voice louder, higher, more surely, “I knew you were leaving before you did. I _already knew._ And that was bad enough, to know you were going, but when you said you loved me, I couldn’t stand it.” 

Arthur swung his legs off the lounger and sat forward, his hands clutching at the edge of the seat like he was about to pounce. Merlin trembled, unable to move, unable to take his eyes off Arthur as he ranted.

“The problem with you, Merlin, is that you look but you don’t always see. I expect you think now I’ve come here to Ealdor I’m going to steal all your friends or something with my big house and all my money. But you know what? This isn’t my house, it’s my uncle’s. Dad’s business went bankrupt last year so now we have to take my uncle’s charity. I didn’t want to come here; I didn’t want to leave my old school, my friends, my house. But the one thing, the one and only thing that made it bearable was knowing you were going to be here.”

Merlin opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, because he really had no words. Arthur had plenty, and they were still tumbling out of his mouth like an avalanche.

“I know it ended badly between us, but I was only twelve, and I didn’t know how to react. I had no one to talk to about how I was feeling, not like you had your mum. I thought when I came here we’d be able to talk about what happened. But all you’ve done is avoid me.”

Finally, Arthur stopped talking. He looked like he was waiting for Merlin to speak, for Merlin to explain himself. Merlin had been avoiding Arthur, that was true, but there was a part of him unable to shake off the indignation that had been clinging onto him for so long. It was wrong and petulant, but Merlin said anyway, “You were the one who bolted the instant we first met.”

“I was _scared._ I’ve thought about you every day for the last four years. I’ve missed you. God Merlin, can’t you just once try and see things from someone else’s point of view?”

Maybe a thousand times over, Merlin had rehearsed this moment in his head—what would happen if he got the chance to speak to Arthur again, with no holds barred. He’d dreamed up scenario after scenario: impassioned declarations, angry tirades, even the exchange of blows. As the years went by, without a visual of Arthur to focus on, Merlin’s mental image of him had become more and more impassive. It was only as Merlin looked at Arthur curling in on himself, flesh and blood and stormy eyes, he realised he’d been playing out his anger with a punch bag, unresponsive and silent and without any feelings of its own. 

Arthur’s words were ringing in Merlin’s ears; they weren’t the ones he’d been expecting to hear. And now Merlin was the one left feeling like he’d had all the air knocked out of him. 

Overwhelmed and shocked, it was all Merlin could do not to pass out.

Arthur stared at him a while then said, “Forget it.”

He stormed off across the grass. Too late, Merlin stood, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. When he looked down, his can of coke had fallen onto its side and was leaking all over the patio.

*

There was a narrow, winding path through the copse which Merlin assumed Arthur must have taken to get to the lake. Nervously, Merlin followed it, unsure of what to say or do when he made it out of the other side. At the end of the trail, where the trees and ferns and nettles ended and the grass swept down to the water, Arthur had his own rowboat tied to a post. He used it to go over the lake in the opposite direction to Merlin and his friends. When Merlin reached the grass the boat was gone and so was Arthur.

Looking out onto the lake, Merlin saw him on the water, flicking up fans of spray as he rowed furiously away from the shore. When he got to the middle, he lifted out the oars and tucked them inside the boat. Merlin watched Arthur watching him for a few seconds. Then Arthur shifted and wriggled himself down in the boat, so that all that Merlin could see were the soles of his feet resting on the stern.

Merlin looked around, not really sure why. There was no one about except a couple of dog-walkers on the opposite shore. It was only half-past one—Freya and Gwaine weren’t going to be here for another half an hour. Merlin sat down on the grass. He supposed Arthur had gone out there to cool off. Merlin’s chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. All this time, he’d let his hurt and anger fester. It had blurred his vision until he’d forgotten about fierce, funny Arthur; the Arthur he’d loved so dearly, the Arthur who’d made him happy, who’d made him feel special, like he was the sun and moon and stars. 

Merlin thought back, to before. He remembered the swing in the Pendragon’s garden. It was only a tyre on a rope, but he and Arthur had swung and spun on it for hours and hours. That last day before it all changed, they’d got dizzy and breathless and Arthur had been pressed next to Merlin, their legs tangled together and their feet skimming the grass. Arthur had grinned and pulled a face to make Merlin laugh and Merlin did—he laughed and laughed with his head thrown back and his mouth open wide. They didn’t stop swinging until Hunith was calling them in for dinner. As they clambered out of the tyre, Merlin was consumed with the feeling that this moment was perfect, that he was the happiest he had ever been in his whole life. It felt right and natural that he shouldn’t let Arthur go without telling him. He clutched Arthur by the hand, pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “I love you.”

Merlin remembered the way Arthur’s face had fallen. How his face had screwed up and he’d balled his fists like he was going to punch Merlin in the face, and how he’d turned and run back to the house without a word.

Merlin had always thought it was revulsion that had driven Arthur to run. But perhaps in retrospect, that look might have been sorrow, because Merlin was leaving. Perhaps Arthur, who had never backed down from anything ever, had run from Merlin because he didn’t want to be the one left behind.

Merlin’s world was tipped upside down. He was falling towards the sky, he was drowning, he was burning—all at the same time. He put his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp as if it was somehow possible to remould his brain to remember things right, to understand what actually happened. Not that it mattered. The past was done, was gone. What mattered now was that Arthur was there and Merlin was here, with a few hundred yards of water between them, and four year’s worth of misapprehension.

Merlin sat for a long time, Arthur’s final words resonating in his skull.

_The one thing that made it bearable was knowing you were going to be here._

Then it came to him. 

Yes, Merlin _was_ here. And he was here to stay.

Getting to his feet, Merlin called out to the boat, “Arthur, come back. Please. I’m sorry. I had it all wrong, and I should have realised, but I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

Arthur didn’t move, though he must have heard him.

“Arthur. Come back. I’m not leaving you out there.” _I’m not leaving you again._ In a whisper, Merlin spoke softly into the autumn air, “I’m not leaving you again.”

It looked like Arthur’s feet moved but it might have been the boat gently bobbing on the water. Merlin took off his jacket, as the thought momentarily crossed his mind he would swim out and drag the boat back to shore himself if he had to. But the reality of it was, there was no way Merlin could—

The first tingle of magic started deep in Merlin’s belly. Far from the usual nausea Merlin experienced when he was anxious, this feeling in his stomach was electrifying and liberating. It uncoiled and fluttered as it spread outwards, dancing and sparking through Merlin’s muscles making his arms tremble. It went on, until his hands were trembling too and Merlin had to stretch out his fingers to ease the prickling inside them.

Merlin looked out over the lake to Arthur and _wanted_. He wanted Arthur back, he wanted him close. He wanted to smell his skin, to feel his chest heave, to look into his eyes and see them looking back into his. Merlin wanted Arthur with every fibre of his being. Lifting his arm, stretching it out towards the boat, Merlin closed his eyes and whispered, “Come back. Come back to me.” 

Merlin’s heart was beating strong and steady, like an ancient war drum, not racing as it might have been. The magic inside him was pulsing in time with it. Merlin stood up straight and tall, and _commanded_ the air, the water, the wood of the boat. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing, but it felt good and right. His magic was thrumming in his bones.

The first thing Merlin was aware of, beyond the magic inside his body, was a warm wind blowing from the lake to the shore. 

Opening his eyes, Merlin said it again—he spoke to the wind, to the water, to the wooden boat, “Bring him back to me.”

The wind licked the water, the water rolled and rippled, and the rowboat began to move. Merlin’s face broke into a grin. He was doing it! The boat was gliding through the water, its pace picking up as it gained momentum. As the boat went faster, as the wake fanned out wider and deeper behind it, so Merlin’s confidence grew. He’d have Arthur onshore in no time.

Ah. Arthur.

The boat was going some pace—faster than the average rower—when Arthur wobbled up onto the seat and shouted out to Merlin, “What are you … You can’t just … You …” Then he grabbed the sides of the boat, and held on silently, stunned.

Merlin dragged the boat all the way up onto the dry bank. Once it was still, when Merlin felt the thrill and energy of his magic subsiding, he put one foot inside the boat and held out his hand. He wasn’t going to let Arthur refuse it. “Bit better than a paperclip, huh?” he said cautiously, braving a small and careful smile.

Arthur’s face was pale and stricken. He looked at Merlin’s outstretched hand, he looked into Merlin’s eyes; he looked back to Merlin’s hand. Long seconds ebbed away, but Merlin waited patiently, hopefully, his hand unwavering—until Arthur finally took it.

Merlin guided Arthur from the boat. Arthur was unsteady and he stumbled forward, his palms landing on Merlin’s chest. He looked nervous, unsure. Merlin put his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulled him closer.

Standing facing each other, on the edge of the lake, warm air wrapped around them like a cocoon, Arthur seemed to relax a little into Merlin’s embrace. At last, his fists bunching Merlin’s jumper, he said, “You got tall. You’re taller than me now.”

“But still weird and skinny.”

“I like weird and skinny.”

Merlin kissed him after that, because there was nothing more that needed to be said. 

It was tentative at first. Arthur opened his mouth before Merlin dared and pushed his tongue over Merlin’s lips. There was the faint taste and smell of beer in his mouth, and his teeth clashed with Merlin’s a few times before he eased back. It was funny and wonderful and strange and close, so brilliantly close.

Merlin responded to every move Arthur made—followed the movement of his tongue, tilting his face so their noses didn’t clash; breathing through his nostrils so their lips didn’t have to part. Kissing was new to him and while he guessed he was getting the hang of it quickly enough, he trusted Arthur to lead the way, like he always used to. 

As Merlin surrendered his tongue and lips, he was also aware of Arthur’s hands, moving to cup his jaw. Arthur slid his fingers behind Merlin’s neck, he tugged at the curls of hair on his nape, and then, when Merlin was sure his mouth was too full of spit and he was going to have to pull away to swallow and breathe—then Arthur pushed his hips forward and there was absolutely, definitely no mistaking what that was pressing against Merlin’s hip. Merlin’s erection was throbbing, too, and it seemed only fair he should let Arthur know he was just as turned on. So Merlin did the same—pushed his hips forward—perhaps more forcefully than Arthur had done, but only because he wanted to be extra sure Arthur got the message.

“Whoa, steady,” Arthur laughed into Merlin’s mouth. 

“Sorry. I just—”

“It’s all right. I know,” Arthur said, before he tugged Merlin down on top of him onto the grass.

Merlin pushed back Arthur’s golden hair so that he could look down at every square inch of his face. He kissed Arthur on his mouth; he kissed him on his jaw and mouthed his way over his neck, to the delicate skin behind his ear. Arthur shrugged and Merlin guessed he was ticklish there. Merlin knew other places where Arthur was ticklish, but this was new to him. He committed it to memory, with a rush of arousal as he contemplated searching out the other secret places where Arthur was sensitive, where he would shudder at Merlin’s touch.

Arthur held Merlin with strong, secure arms. He whispered low against the shell of Merlin’s ear, “Let’s go back to the house.” 

Arthur’s voice was laden with promise and so, so _sexy._ Merlin’s breath caught in his throat as he thought of what might happen next. But his excitement was short-lived. “We can’t,” he complained. “The others will be here soon.”

Arthur lifted Merlin’s head and smiled. “No they won’t,” he said, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “They’re not coming over until this evening.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later. But right now, we have some catching up to do.”

*

On the walk back through the house and up the stairs to Arthur’s bedroom, Merlin paid more attention to Arthur’s new home. Most of the doors were closed, but the few open ones revealed a dwelling that was barely lived in—rooms with half-drawn curtains, filled with neglected furniture covered in white cotton sheets. Arthur and his father were living in three rooms upstairs and the kitchen.

Arthur held Merlin’s hand tightly in his, like he was afraid that if he let him go a spell would be broken and Merlin would disappear from his grasp again. Merlin rubbed his thumb over the top of Arthur’s hand, deliberately not loosening his grip or removing the broad grin that was plastered across his face. 

“This is it,” Arthur said sheepishly. “This is the room I stayed in when I was small, when we came to visit. My uncle had it painted blue. The bed’s from our old house.”

“I remember it.”

“Remember it was our ship?”

Merlin did. He added, “And a horse, and a car, and a dragon once, too.”

“Now it’s just a bed,” Arthur said, perhaps a little wistfully.

“That’s all we need.”

Merlin eased Arthur down and didn’t wait for Arthur to kiss him first. In the quiet of the house, Merlin could hear every one of Arthur’s sighs and murmurs. Merlin didn’t hold back with the noises that escaped his throat either, as Arthur squeezed his backside and snuck his fingers inside his shirt.

Laying half over Arthur, Merlin used his hands, his fingers, to explore. He touched Arthur’s face, his neck and when he was more confident he dared to lift the hem of Arthur’s sweatshirt, pushing it up to his chest. Arthur’s stomach was taut and muscular. There was a smattering of hair that trailed from his navel and disappeared beneath his jeans. And there was no missing the bulge of Arthur’s erection. Merlin wanted to touch it all, to taste and smell and feel everything. He was trembling like a coiled spring, hardly able to decide what to do next.

Arthur’s face was flushed, as was his neck. Just looking at him made Merlin feel hotter, like all his skin was on fire. He needed to be wearing less. He knelt up to peel his jumper off, over his head, and as he did so, his shirt went with it. Merlin hadn’t meant to strip himself to the waist; he wasn’t trying to rush things. But it was done now and Arthur was looking at Merlin’s bared chest like he was dying of thirst. 

Arthur curled his fist around Merlin’s bicep. “Not that skinny.” 

“Must be the rowing,” Merlin said, a bit uneasy.

Arthur moved his hand over Merlin’s chest, brushed his fingertips over his nipple. Merlin gasped.

“Fuck, Merlin. You grew up. You really grew up.” 

Merlin couldn’t take his eyes off Arthur. He could hardly believe Arthur was lying there right in front of him; that he was allowed to touch him, though he still wasn’t quite brave enough to make the next move. “Arthur,” he breathed, his voice raspy and unsure.

“Come here.” Arthur dragged Merlin down onto his chest. 

Now Merlin couldn’t see Arthur’s stomach or the bulge of his cock, but he could _feel_ everything—stomach to stomach, and erection pressed against erection through the layers of their clothes. They kissed until Merlin was breathless; his cock rigid, squashed tight between their bodies. It was instinctual to grind his hips down, to revel in the friction of fabric over the tip of his cock. Merlin’s balls were full and tight, rubbing against his pants as he rutted into Arthur, while Arthur rolled his hips up into Merlin’s every thrust.

It was too much and not enough, kissing and grinding. Merlin wanted Arthur to put his hand around his cock. He wanted to come. But he also wanted this never to stop. His jaw ached from kissing, his pants were damp at the front and his mind kept wandering to thoughts of Arthur’s cock, pressing into his hip. There were a myriad of sensations, warring and clashing. Merlin closed his eyes.

When Arthur slid his hand down the back of Merlin’s jeans, inside his pants, and touched the cleft of his arse Merlin cried out, “Oh,” in surprise.

Arthur pulled his hand back and whispered, “Too much?”

“No, no. It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

Arthur looked wrecked. His hair was a mess and his lips were kissed raw. Merlin smiled but knew it could never nearly convey how happy, how excited, how absolutely fucking ecstatic he felt. He’d thought for such a long time he would never get to have this with anyone, let alone Arthur—as stupid as that seemed now. 

Merlin shifted onto his side and pressed his hand firmly over the line of Arthur’s erection. He rubbed his palm over the bulge, clutched Arthur’s cock through the denim. Arthur gasped and arched his back. 

“Can I?” Merlin said, with his fingertips poised at Arthur’s zip.

“Fuck. Yes,” he breathed. “You, too.”

Arthur’s cock was thick and straight. Merlin didn’t hesitate to put his hand around it, to feel it silky smooth and hard in his fist. It was good, after all that waiting, but in truth it was all arms and elbows and awkward angles as they tried to wank each other. When Merlin tried to wriggle more over Arthur and promptly shouldered him in the chin, Arthur stopped and snickered, “Hang on.”

He sat up, took off his sweatshirt and shuffled further up the bed. After arranging a pillow behind his back he spread his thighs and beckoned Merlin with, “Come and sit on my lap.”

It was a good thing Merlin’s jeans were loose enough to slip easily over his hips, even as he straddled Arthur. Merlin looked down at his cock jutting out in front of him, with Arthur’s beneath, resting on his belly. 

“Closer,” Arthur said, as he put a firm palm on the small of Merlin’s back. Merlin steadied himself by hooking his arm around Arthur’s neck and his position was perfect. As Arthur took Merlin’s cock in his hand he knew that was it—he would come really soon. But when Arthur pushed Merlin’s hips down and added his own cock to the circle of his fist, Merlin couldn’t swallow for the dryness in his throat. Arthur was wanking them _both_ at the same time. 

Merlin watched enthralled as Arthur, slowly at first, pumped his fist up and down their aligned cocks. Merlin revelled in the pressure and rub of Arthur’s fist gliding up and down, the slide of Arthur’s cock against his. But it was looking down at the shining head of his cock squashed against Arthur’s that sent Merlin ever closer to the edge. 

“I’m gonna come,” he breathed, strangely and suddenly almost afraid that it was about to happen. 

“Yes, go on, go on.”

Arthur hadn’t finished murmuring his encouragement before Merlin’s balls were squeezing and his cock swelling in that blissful moment before the crash. With his head pressed into the side of Arthur’s face, Merlin jerked forward, his come painting Arthur’s stomach. 

Merlin tried to breathe deep, to ride out the pulses of his orgasm, while Arthur squeezed the last beads of come from the tip of his cock; the viscous fluid oozing over his hand and wrist, and sticking in the hair at the base. 

Once he’d caught his breath, once his cock was softening in Arthur’s grasp, Merlin dipped his fingertip in the bead of fluid trickling from Arthur’s cockhead. He smoothed it around, absorbed by the way Arthur’s breathing stop-started as he tipped his head forward onto Merlin’s shoulder. 

“I missed you,” Arthur murmured, so quietly Merlin felt the words on his skin more than he heard them.

Merlin wanted to say something profound, something to make Arthur understand that he’d missed him too, that even when he wanted to beat his fists with rage, he never stopped loving him. He never stopped. But Arthur’s cock was there at Merlin’s fingertips—stiff, weeping and begging. Arthur was pressing his fingers into Merlin’s hips, as if he was unable to speak, as if it was his fingers telling Merlin what he needed—as if it wasn’t obvious. Merlin curled his fist around Arthur’s cock and began to move, slowly at first, then faster and firmer. 

Arthur began to push his hips up, his rhythm counter to Merlin’s, speeding up as Merlin increased his pace. He was close. His thrusts faltered then sped; his fingers dug into Merlin’s skin hard enough to bruise. 

“That’s it. Come for me,” Merlin urged, desperate to see Arthur let it go, desperately wanting him to come apart for him. Then, without thinking, Merlin rasped, “I’ve got you.”

That must have been all Arthur needed because he stilled and groaned; Merlin felt Arthur’s entire body stiffen and there was come pulsing out of his cock—thick white ropes of it that seemed to go everywhere. Merlin thought it might be immature to laugh but he couldn’t help himself. He needn’t have worried because Arthur was laughing too as he ran his fingers through the mess. Merlin wasn’t sure whose come was whose but it was all over them. They reeked of it—the entire room must have reeked of it and Arthur looked … well … like he’d been thoroughly fucked. Merlin could only imagine he must look the same.

“How long do we have until the others get here?” Merlin asked as Arthur pulled him close, completely ignoring the drying semen that was sticking their bellies together.

“A couple of hours.”

Arthur reached for his sweatshirt and used it to clean them up. Merlin settled next to him with his legs across Arthur’s lap, still feeling warm from the exertion and the heat of Arthur’s chest. They stayed silent for a time, settling into the embrace as their breathing slowed and quieted. There was a lot more that needed to be said, Merlin knew that. But with Arthur running his fingers gently up and down his arm, his lips pressed to the top of Merlin’s head, Merlin didn’t feel the need to worry about it just yet. For the first time in what felt like forever, he knew they had plenty of time to talk it out. 

What couldn’t wait was the question of the conspiracy to get him and Arthur alone for the afternoon. 

“Was this your doing—this birthday ruse?” Merlin asked playfully, knowing full well it wasn’t.

“No.” Arthur’s laugh rumbled through Merlin’s entire body. “I had nothing to do with it except agreeing to go along with—”

“Let me guess. Freya?”

“It was all her idea, but the coercion was a joint effort.”

“Will, Gwaine and Elena, too?”

“Yes, all of them. Though I have to tell you, it’s the girls that were brutal.”

Merlin sat upright, astonished at Arthur’s choice of words. “Elena and Freya?” 

With obvious mirth, Arthur began to recount what happened. “Yes. About a week ago, they got me to Gwaine’s under a _false pretext,_ ” he said raising his eyebrows for emphasis, “and dragged me into the store cupboard. Elena had me in a headlock, Freya was sitting on my legs and Will and Gwaine stood outside the door. They told me they weren’t letting me out until I told them what was going on between us.”

Merlin laughed—and cringed. They’d realised he wouldn’t tell them anything, that they’d have more luck with Arthur. It made him sadder than he thought it would. Arthur must have sensed it because he laced his fingers through Merlin’s and said, “They were worried about you. And so was I.”

Swallowing thickly, Merlin kissed Arthur on the cheek and nuzzled back into his neck so he wouldn’t see his face crumple. He took a deep breath and said cheerfully, “Freya’s got some psychic thing going on. I knew it would be her doing.”

“She said we had the afternoon to thrash it out.” Arthur squeezed Merlin’s shoulders. “Then they would all come over in the evening and we’d let off fireworks.”

“I thought we already did that.”

“That was just lighting the bonfire,” Arthur said, as he pushed Merlin onto his back and kissed him. There was no more time for Merlin to dwell on what had been as Arthur mumbled something about rockets between sucking the skin on Merlin’s neck and grabbing his balls through his jeans. Merlin made a terrible joke about firecrackers between breaths and pinching Arthur’s nipple, and before they knew it they had their hands down each other’s pants all over again.

*

If Merlin had any doubts as to how much Arthur wanted him, they were quickly dispelled by his every action from the day he kissed Merlin at the lake.

When they walked places together, Arthur held Merlin’s hand, or wrapped his arm around his waist. He never failed to kiss Merlin good-bye or hello. And at random moments, Merlin would be surprised by a peck on the cheek, on the lips, on the temple and sometimes on the shell of his ear. In turn, Merlin began to find it was easy to do the same.

Over the days and weeks, Arthur demonstrated his affection with soppy playlists and silly notes. One frosty day in November, out of the blue, he took Merlin’s face in his hands and said, “I love you.” Merlin didn’t hesitate, not for a heartbeat, to reply, “I love you, too.” After all, they were only words which confirmed what they knew—that they’d both loved each other for a long time. 

The end of term Midwinter party had traditionally been a black-tie affair. For a small school, where most students came from modest backgrounds, they celebrated every season with unusual flair. This Midwinter, though, the committee had voted for a fancy dress. While it was a shift from the norm, it was anticipated with much excitement. The common room was buzzing with party talk and speculation. Some people’s costumes were a closely guarded secret. Some people talked nonstop about theirs in elaborate detail. Merlin and Arthur were evasive, and for once no one pestered them.

Merlin didn’t like his hat and made it amply clear to Arthur he was only wearing it for him. It was worth the embarrassment of his ears sticking out the sides just to see Arthur beaming.

Arthur took Merlin by the shoulders and said firmly, “I think you look brilliant.”

“Your costume’s better.”

“Are you kidding me? Look at your cloak. It’s much better than mine.”

Merlin got the feeling Arthur and his mum were humouring him, but according to Arthur that was because he had trust issues he needed to work through—whatever that meant. Merlin still felt like an idiot but he was going to be on Arthur’s arm and that was the main thing. 

Hunith looked on at them both proudly and said to Merlin, “I knew those curtains would come in handy. Now say ‘cheese’.”

When they walked into the school hall, their friends were already there. They were greeted with a delighted clap from Freya. “I knew it!” she exclaimed, hugging them both as if their costumes were the cleverest idea since the invention of sliced bread.

There were wry laughs and eye rolls from Gwaine and Will. Elena, who had outdone everyone by coming as the Statue of Liberty, sauntered over to them with her plastic torch held aloft, knocking the drink out of the hand of someone in a gorilla suit on her way over. Unperturbed, she said brightly, “I can’t hug you, boys. I’ll get this green make-up all over your lovely cloaks. But I have to say, it’s inspired. How did you ever come up with the idea of King Arthur and the sorcerer, Merlin?”

There was laughter and good cheer before they headed for the punch. Once Arthur started dishing out the vodka from beneath his cloak, it all got positively raucous. Merlin downed his plastic cup and got up to dance with Freya, leaving Arthur to talk philosophy or some such nonsense with Gwaine. With the spiked punch coursing its way through his veins, it didn’t take much swaying and gyrating in time to the music for Merlin to find the tacky lights and paper streamers were beginning to look quite lovely. And so was everyone else, decked out in their fancy dress.

The dance floor started to fill up when Slade came on. Someone stole Merlin’s pointy blue hat; he didn’t mind, because Arthur was looking at him and giving him a little wave. Instantly, Merlin decided he’d had enough dancing. He wanted to be close to Arthur. He wanted a kiss. 

Arthur appeared to be deep into a very important conversation with a boy called Ely, and Gwaine. Ely had the prettiest eyes. Merlin had always wanted to tell him he loved his eyelashes. He thought it was probably better not to, with Arthur there. All the seats were taken, but Freya sat down on Gwaine’s lap and Merlin nudged Arthur so that he could share his seat and listen to what was being said over the music. 

“What else were we supposed to do?” Arthur was saying. He sounded a little tipsy. “I mean, my name would be quite normal on its own, especially if I was about seventy or something. But I don’t know what drugs Hunith was on when she decided it was a good idea to call her son Merlin.”

“Hey!” Merlin slapped Arthur on the arm. 

“You know I think it suits you, sweet-cheeks, but I’m trying to explain something.” Arthur carried on in earnest. “Of course, it had to be fate that we ended up together. And that’s why we thought we should come as our namesakes.”

Arthur sat up straighter and gave Merlin a bracing hug, his speech apparently over. His crown was askew and he’d lost his plastic sword. 

Freya, who’d been busy trying to stop Gwaine pulling on her kitty whiskers, frowned momentarily and said, “I’m pretty sure Merlin was a lot older than Arthur. And I’m one hundred percent certain they didn’t get off with each other at state banquets or Midwinter parties.”

“We’re the alternative, modern version,” was Arthur’s triumphant retort. 

Merlin thought _that_ deserved a kiss. So he planted one right on the end of Arthur’s nose. 

Meanwhile, Will, dressed as Buzz Lightyear, was sword-fighting with some gangly boy Merlin thought was called Brian, or maybe Brad. (So that’s where Arthur’s sword had got to). And Elena had her tongue down the throat of a boy in the upper sixth called Percy. Like her, he was wearing a sheet. Only his so-called costume was completed with nothing more than a pair of blue trainers and a green paper hat. It was a pathetic attempt at a toga, but Merlin figured that when you had pecs the size of South Wales you could probably wear whatever you liked.

Merlin looked about the room, at all of his friends, all looking like they were having a great time. He was having a great time. But his head was spinning and Arthur had snuck his fingers inside the back of his scratchy tunic. He was pulling on the tiny hairs at the base of Merlin’s spine, making him tingly where he shouldn’t be in a public place.

“I think I want to go home now,” Merlin said dreamily, letting his head loll onto Arthur’s shoulder.

“Shall I call your mum?”

“No. Let’s walk.”

“It’s freezing out.”

“I’ve got my big, blue curtain. And you have my mum’s Midwinter tablecloth. We’ll be fine.”

“All right then. Let’s go.”

Arthur and Merlin weren’t the first ones leaving. There were cars headed in and out of the car park and the sounds of revellers on foot like them invading the peace of the silent night. A light fog hung in the air, glowing tangerine from the streetlights.

They crossed over the road and headed briskly away from the noise and bright lamplight, hand in hand. 

The night was bitter, but Merlin had wrapped them in a blanket of warm air. It circled and chased them as they bumped and marched a soldier’s pace towards Merlin’s house. It gusted and lifted up flakes of ice that were encrusted on the leaves and branches of the trees and bushes hanging over garden walls. The ice-flakes flew around them like snow but melted to nothing before they could touch them.

Arthur sidled in close and said, “You’re doing that, aren’t you?”

“I might be.”

“There’s no need to show off,” he teased. “I know you’re the real deal, Merlin.”

“I’m not showing off, I’m keeping us warm.”

“Then you won’t mind if we stop for a bit.” 

They’d reached the cut-through between the houses that lead to Merlin’s cul-de-sac. Arthur backed Merlin gently into the fence and held him tight while they kissed. Merlin couldn’t keep up his magic when he was occupied by Arthur’s tongue, and soon the cold night closed in. 

It didn’t matter.

Nothing was as warm as Arthur’s breath on his skin, his arms around him, and nothing quite as magical as his kiss.


End file.
